


brighter where you are

by Kisatsel



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, LA era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 14:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11579862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/pseuds/Kisatsel
Summary: “Okay,” Jon says. “We’re going to work on this. You’re bringing me down right now.”“Are we?” Tommy says. He sounds very pleased at the prospect. He needs to get out more.“Yeah,” Jon says. “We are. Come over to mine for a beer tonight. You need to... to get away from all this soulless minimalism.” He waves a hand around to encompass the office, Tommy’s house, Tommy’s life. “I’ve seen your kitchen. Shining and empty. You hate it.”





	brighter where you are

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to joshlymanwalkandtalk, celli and vltfemmes for help and encouragement with this! 
> 
> (please don't share this outside of fandom spaces! thank you! <3)

Any distraction is a good distraction when you’re sitting on the floor in your spare bedroom, surrounded by boxes full of merch and groaning in despair, is Jon’s new philosophy. He applies it with enthusiasm and has spent half an hour messing around on twitter when Tommy announces over the group chat on Whatsapp that he’s going over to Beverly Hills to pick up his wedding suit. 

_pick me up_ , Jon sends.  
_I wanna come_

He sends a picture of himself lying on the floor with a FRIEND OF THE POD t-shirt over his face.

 _Those are for sale_ , Favs sends.  
_Not for draping over your body._

Jon types out _you assigned me this task and now you have to deal with the consequences_ and taps his foot impatiently. The floor isn’t actually comfortable but it’s fitting to his current state of despair, even if no one is there to see him suffer. 

He watches idly as the _Tommy Vietor is typing_ message pops up and then disappears after a minute. Typical, Jon thinks, but Tommy hesitating isn’t actually new. It’d taken months of complaining and pointed anecdotes about all the fun he and Favs were having here to get Tommy to finally come out to LA. And now he has. Unfortunately, the problem has always been that once Jon gets what he wants he decides he wants something different. 

He drops his phone on his chest and groans. It buzzes twice. 

_Ok!_ , Tommy’s sent.  
_Be ready in ten._

They drive out to the Indochino showroom with the windows cracked, Tommy with his shades on staring out at the highway, Ed Sheeran crooning platitudes over the radio. It’s a comfortable silence. Jon closes his eyes against the glare of the sun. 

The sales associate is all smiles when she greets them. “It’s nice that you guys came to pick these up,” she says. “I’m Alicia. You’re welcome to try the suits on. Let me know if you you need any adjustments.”

Tommy steps forward. “Hi, Alicia. Yeah, that’s why we came in person. Plus I get to see Lovett looking handsome.” 

Jon rolls his eyes, but then he thinks about how long it’s been since he saw Tommy in a well-tailored suit, and spends a few seconds considering that. The frustrating thing about Tommy is that no matter how good he looks in Jon’s head, reality always manages to be better. He looks good now, just in a shirt and slacks, taking his suit out of its box and brushing a hand over the sleeve appraisingly. 

“Mm,” Jon says, cracking his box open. “It’s like a pizza, but better. When did you get your first suit fitted, Tommy? Was it before or after your tenth birthday?” 

Tommy laughs, head thrown back, his upper body shaking with it. 

“After. High school graduation.” 

“Of course.” Jon’s suit is - pretty nice, actually. He holds it out in front of him.

Tommy leans in over Jon’s shoulder to look at his lining fabric. One hand brushes over Jon’s waist. Soft. Not hesitant. “Very nice,” Tommy says. “Definitely not boring.”

Tommy is solid behind him, his breath warm on Jon’s neck, and he probably notices the twitch in Jon’s shoulders. When Jon turn his head and flicks his eyes back over his shoulder Tommy’s right there, wide-eyed. Tommy takes a small step back. 

“Our bride and groom introduced certain restrictions on fabric for the groomsmen’s suits,” Jon explains to the associate. 

“Jon and Emily chose the fabric. Because it’s their wedding,” Tommy cuts in. 

“Yes, the happy couple chose the colour scheme. And so, within these heteronormative constraints, I tried to make what changes I could to make the suit a little livelier, a little less boring. In short, a little gayer.” 

“We’re all doing what we can,” Alicia says wryly. 

“Exactly,” Jon agrees. 

Jon won’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy Tommy’s approving gaze, doesn’t get a buzz when one of his jokes shocks a laugh out of him. It’s equally gratifying to get a reaction when Jon steps out in clothes that actually fit. There’s a weird kind of energy as they stand in front of the mirror, their reflections posed side by side and looking back at them. Jon, fiddling with the soft silk of his tie and Tommy staring like he wants to bore a hole in the glass. 

“Do you think it’s too tight?” Tommy says. 

“No,” Jon says. “It’s tight, and it’s perfect.” 

Tommy looks doubtful. He glances towards Alicia. 

“Hmm,” she says. “Relax your arms?” She twitches her hand over the fabric, smooths it down. “It fits well in the torso. Turn around?” Tommy does, and they both look appraisingly at the fall of the fabric over his ass. 

“Thoughts?” Tommy says.

Jon ignores Tommy’s put-upon tone, puts a hand on his shoulder and spins him around. He places a hand over the crisp fabric of the suit jacket. “You’re so handsome it’s disgusting. Your ass looks great. No adjustments necessary.” 

“The seat can’t be let out far anyway, so I’d say you’re good,” Alicia says. “But we’re more than happy to make any adjustments you’d like.”

“Nah,” Tommy says. “If Lovett’s good with it then I am too.” 

“Alright! I’ll pack these back up for you once you’re changed.” 

It feels like slipping into an easier, more familiar skin when Jon pulls his worn t-shirt back on, stepping out of the spotlight glare. 

They hang around for a minute, making small talk about the wedding plans as Alicia packs the suits back up for them. 

“It must be convenient for your friends,” she says. 

“Hm?” Jon says.

“When your groomsmen are each other’s plus ones. I know there’s always one more person you have to get onto the guest list.” 

There’s a pause. Jon’s half-watching Tommy and he sees his expression shift momentarily to discomfort, then back to a polite smile, when he realises what she means.

“Oh, yeah, we’re not together but don’t worry about it,” Tommy says, very casually. 

“Oh!” She cringes, wincing apologetically as the realisation hits, and Jon feels a stab of irritation that isn’t fair to anyone. 

“Listen,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s not the first time and it probably won’t be the last.”

“We bicker a lot. Lovingly,” Tommy adds. 

“I’m actually not taking a date. Recent break-up.” Jon waves away Alicia’s sympathetic frown. “Maybe I’ll advertise on Craigslist and vet them by handsomeness and then the chosen candidate will fall in love with me by the end of the night.”

“The worst thing is you would actually do that.” Tommy says, elbowing him.

“It’s a great idea. I just might.” 

“Don’t,” Tommy says. 

“Uh, what?”

“Don’t - you don’t need some random date.” Tommy sounds like he does when he thinks Jon’s being trivial about something that matters, which is dumb, and patronising to boot. His joke was a good way to dissolve the tension in the air before Tommy interrupted.

“Why not? You want me to be alone and miserable at a celebration of love?” Jon takes the bags. “Sorry, the suits are great, we love them, I promise we’ll be out of here soon.” 

“It’s been a pleasure. We really value you guys as sponsors,” she says smoothly. 

“Told you we bicker.” Tommy tilts his head, indicating Jon, like _yeah, he’s like that sometimes_.

“I said why not,” Jon says sharply, turning towards the door, still smarting. “Am I not allowed to craft amusing fictions to make life tolerable anymore?” Nice to be reminded of how fucking obvious he is, just for reacting like a human being to Tommy breathing affection down his neck. Doubly nice to be scolded by a friend for something that doesn’t even matter. 

“Just - I’m gonna be alone on the wedding day too. It’s not really alone, we’ve got the band, and - Favs is our guy. You know.” Jon doesn’t know why Tommy has to sound like he’s pleading. 

“Right. Tommy Vietor insists on prosaic misery to mark the big day so everyone else has to too.” 

“Lovett,” Tommy hisses. Jon’s talking too loudly, worked up for no reason, and they aren’t yet out the door. He doesn’t care. 

“I wasn’t aware that I needed your permission but sure, I’ll be sure to run it by you next time I get someone’s number.” 

“That wasn’t--” Tommy begins, and then thankfully shuts up. Warm air hits them when they step outside. 

Tommy’s silently fuming beside him, so of course the first thing he does when they get in the car is apologise. “Sorry for getting weird. You were just joking. And it’s none of my business whether you bring a date.” 

“Obviously.”

Tommy sits silently in front of the wheel, and pinches the bridge of his nose, a weary, folded up scarecrow. Jon slumps down in his seat. “Weddings are - you know. Weddings,” Tommy says, and just leaves it there. 

“Yeah. It’s exhausting. At least we both look good.” Jon heaves himself up and looks straight ahead, out to the row of well-dressed mannequins standing behind the glass of the Indochino storefront. “Come on, let’s go.” 

\---

Tommy’s a little off, somehow, the next day at work. He’s deeper inside his head, takes a fraction longer to respond, his voice a little terser. It reminds Jon of the Tommy they’d get over the phone back in December before they got him out to LA. Tommy doesn’t pitch in much when they’re recording ads, spends most of the day working his way relentlessly through his inbox. Jon tries not to feel guilty for snapping at him yesterday, with limited success. 

The office is still bare, white walls and a coffee machine standing alone on the side, and since decorating is fairly low on their list of priorities, the only visual diversions when Jon wants a break from staring at his laptop screen are staring out of the window, and staring at his coworkers. Jon tries to divide his time evenly.

He also takes it upon himself to bother Favs and Tommy periodically. Favs is well-practiced at ignoring him. Tommy, who has previously experienced the unique delight of being Jon’s roommate but not that of sharing an office with him, is both more susceptible to and less tolerant of being bothered. 

After a few hours have passed and coffee fails to perk Tommy up, Jon decides he’s had enough. He brings up his legs to push off against the desk and scoots across the room on his swivel chair until he’s next to Tommy, rests his chin on his hands and waits expectantly. 

Sure enough, Tommy turns and peers down at him, frown softening when Jon quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I know,” Tommy says. “Sorry. I’m not really with it today.” 

“You alright?”

Tommy sighs. “You ever just have a bad day? No real reason, just. Stuff on your mind.” 

“No,” Jon says. “That concept is alien to me.” 

“Lovett brings the sunshine with him every day,” Favs says. “Has never been known to fume loudly, demand stress naps close to deadline or pointedly sit underneath his desk and refuse to come out from beneath it. The picture of equanimity.”

“Someone’s been paying close attention to his word of the day calendar app.” This provokes a small snort from Tommy. 

Favs nods affably. “Equa...niminous?” 

“Yes. Exactly. If you look up that word in the dictionary, where it _definitely_ is, you’ll find a picture of me. Looking smug, because he knows he belongs there,” Jon says. He turns back to Tommy, who’s smiling but still looks weary. Jon purses his lips. “Tommy, have you been staying up all night composing anxiety emails to important diplomats?”

“No!” Tommy says. “I never send emails past midnight.” 

“I didn’t say sending, I said composing.” 

Tommy grimaces. 

Jon sighs heavily, and puts his left hand over Tommy’s right, where it’s resting on his laptop keyboard. It’s warm, bigger than Jon’s; his fingers fit neatly in the dips between Tommy’s knuckle-bones. 

He’s gonna say something about workplace productivity, tease Tommy about not bringing his A game, but what comes out instead is, “You’re so tense.” Tommy isn’t looking at him, his shoulders set. Jon draws his hand back before his palm gets sweaty and takes a look at the screen, scans the headlines of the articles Tommy’s got open. “This is Wednesday’s pod, right?”

“Next Wednesday.” Jon waits for Tommy to tell him how excited he is to get an international perspective, the questions he’s got planned. Nothing. Tommy just frowns, and scrolls. 

“Okay,” Jon says. “We’re going to work on this. You’re bringing me down right now.” 

“Are we?” Tommy says. He sounds very pleased at the prospect. He needs to get out more.

“Yeah,” Jon says. “We are. Come over to mine for a beer tonight. You need to... to get away from all this soulless minimalism.” He waves a hand around to encompass the office, Tommy’s house, Tommy’s life. “I’ve seen your kitchen. Shining and empty. You hate it.” 

“Harsh,” Favs says, without turning around. “How much soul is in your unwashed dishes, Lovett?” 

“So fucking much,” Jon says with relish. “The dish for the spicy shrimp pasta that I cooked alone at home on Friday night, because I am my own boyfriend, and am beholden to our corporate sponsors? There’s love lingering among the crusty remains. Anyway.” He scoots back in the direction of his desk, a couple of good pushes with his feet and a satisfying glide before he bumps up against it. He spins around and picks up his phone. “Some of us here have work to do.”

“Fuck off, Lovett,” Tommy says, sounding at least a bit more energised than he did five minutes ago. “It’s Tuesday. My god. You sloven.” 

“ _Tommy._ Oh my.” Jon grins to himself, and forces himself to put his phone back down and finally turn his mind to the work he’s been ignoring. 

\---

The sun is almost set when they leave the office. The air’s cool, the sky above them pale blue and tinged pink at the horizon. Usually Tommy parts ways with them here and Jon and Favs walk back together for the remaining fifteen minutes but today it’s the three of them, taking up most of the narrow sidewalk. It’s what Jon imagines it would’ve been like to walk home from high school with your friends if he’d done that instead of crossing the road and keeping his head down. It’s an imagined nostalgia that makes him feel almost sweet towards Favs as he spells out his deeply unpleasant bachelor party plans and Jon does his best to shoot down the most excruciating sounding parts. 

“So,” Jon says when they reach Favs and Emily’s place, because sure, he’s a little paranoid, “we’re agreed that all drinking games will be dual-vetted by me and Tommy, so he can stop me from destroying all your fun, and I can drink hard spirits without suffering more than necessary.”

“Yes,” Favs says, clearly amused. “I’ll message the guys and then get back to you.” The sun’s slipped down behind the horizon, so their shadows stretch out long, but there’s enough light left for him to glow with happiness. LA and impending marriage both look good on him. “Alright. Later.” 

Favs nods fondly towards the two of them and walks down the path, met by Leo’s joyful barking when he opens the door. 

That leaves Jon and Tommy, lingering outside for a few seconds before Jon jerks his head and Tommy falls into step next to him. Again, the after-school vibe is strong, uncomfortably so. It shouldn’t feel weird to invite Tommy over. They used to live together, for fuck’s sake. Still, it strikes him as odd that Tommy's only come over once or twice. They tend to hang out at Favs and Emily's, since the chances of encountering Jon playing video games in his underwear tend to be lower. Usually when he invites a guy into his space it's to fuck. 

Whatever. Any any discomfort on his part is irrelevant and Tommy will just put it down to regular Lovett weirdness. The goal here is to get Tommy to spill some of whatever’s eating at him and send him home in time to get eight hours of sleep so they can have a bright eyed and bushy tailed Tommy the next day. Regular friend maintenance. In return Tommy can expect to be dragged to a bar along with Favs some time in the near future to listen to Jon kvetch about all the trouble the men of Hollywood are causing him. 

Jon scoops Pundit up and peppers her with kisses when they get inside, and then generously passes her over to Tommy for more of the same. Tommy laughs at the sudden armful of dog. 

“Almost as needy as you,” Tommy says, setting her down. 

“Don’t underestimate me.” Jon gestures towards the shoe rack and knows, when he sees Tommy’s smirk, that Tommy’s thinking of the messy jumble of Jon’s shoes that was a permanent feature of their apartment back in DC. “I know. Look how far we’ve come.” 

He wanders through to the kitchen and looks in the fridge. “Food,” Jon calls through to the hallway. “You want some?”

“Food sounds great.” Tommy wanders in and through to the living room; Jon watches through the doorway, tracking him with his eyes and sees Tommy sink down in the armchair near the TV, spread his legs out, tip his head up to the ceiling, close his eyes. 

A memory hits him, vivid, of last weekend's one night stand in that chair, Jon in his lap. He'd been beardy, kind of built. Had said, Sunday morning, hand wandering over Jon’s chest, "Hey, I went to your show one time. Lovett or Leave It. You're hilarious." Jon had ached pleasantly in his thighs and ass, and in his chest there had been a different kind of ache, something one shade off of dissatisfaction. It was nice, mostly. The guy - Steven? - texted yesterday, and Jon still hasn't replied, and Jesus, he needs to get a grip. 

“I have... day old sushi,” Jon calls over his shoulder. “Eggs. You want eggs? Oh hey, pasta sauce.”

“You’re cooking,” Tommy says, sounding surprised. 

Jon goes to stand in the doorway, sauce in hand, and waves the jar at Tommy. “Sure, I’m cooking. Unless you wanna order in. We can do that ” 

“No, sure. You want help with anything?” 

“You stay out of this, I don’t need a backseat chef. Go dote on Pundit for a while.” Jon casts a critical glance around the room. There’s a sock poking out from under the armchair. It isn’t Jon’s. Tommy doesn’t know that. Jon grits his teeth. “You can do the dishes.”

Back in the kitchen he regards the stove, an old enemy with whom he has reluctantly reconciled in recent years, and the oven, with whom he still has an antagonistic relationship, puts the burner on, fills a pan with water, and wonders what the hell he thinks he’s doing. 

Back in DC, when Jon had more success in mentally categorizing Tommy as unavailable, he’d disliked seeing Tommy stressed and hated being the cause of it. Now, when he knows the job’s not to blame like it was back then, it irks him even more.

Tommy’s been single for long enough that Jon got bored of teasing him for being an ineffective bisexual and almost started to feel bad about it, but he hasn’t been single and _here_.

Tommy being in LA makes everything better in almost every way. He rounds out their trio. He brings levity and seriousness of purpose. Objectively speaking, dealing with his presence shouldn’t be hard. Jon is exposed to Favs’ stupid handsome face and trim body and good heart every day and deals with it just fine. He had assumed it would be the same with Tommy. It would’ve been, probably, if Ronan had kept wanting Jon enough to satisfy him. But Ronan’s a busy guy, and their on-again off-again thing had been off for long enough that it didn’t qualify as much of anything. Jon’s always preferred a clean break to drawn-out misery, when he gets to make the choice.

So he had, and he hadn’t even cried much, hadn’t felt abandoned or unloved for more than a few days. He broke the news over WhatsApp and decamped to Favs and Emily’s house and they fetched him snacks and drinks until he fell asleep on the couch, a sad, blanket covered lump with Pundit warm beside him. 

Drifting off, Jon had felt a hand on his head and cracked an eye open to see the blurry shape of Tommy perched beside him, petting his hair. Jon closed his weary eyes again and burrowed down into the cushions. The monster that resided in the lonely chasm of his soul and had been screaming pitifully all night registered that the sensation felt very nice. 

Tommy whispered, “Night, Lovett,” and placed a hand briefly on Jon’s neck before he stood and his footfalls grew distant. The monster stretched out a claw and scratched at the inside of Jon’s chest. 

Tommy drifts through to the kitchen after a while, grabs a beer from the fridge, heckles Jon about the stack of dishes by the sink. Tommy starts pulling out plates and cutlery before Jon even has to ask. 

Jon shoves the sauce in the microwave and drops a pinch of salt in his pot of water. 

“Look at you,” Tommy says, leaning against the fridge. 

“I salted that water both artistically and professionally,” Jon agrees. 

Tommy looks up at Jon, warm and grateful, as they serve themselves, and Jon loathes himself, just for a second, for the unbearable _dateness_ of the moment, the hideous domesticity of this situation he - no one else around to blame, Lovett! - has managed to engineer. You _wanted_ to make him tortellini, he tells himself ruthlessly, you who once kicked a handsome man out of bed for telling you he didn’t like Star Wars, and hides his frown of self-recrimination behind energetic chewing. So much for putting this behind him. 

“I would’ve lit a candle but I don’t trust myself with fire hazards,” he says, and takes a deep slug of beer. 

“Yeah, normally I love it when you bring the house down, but...” 

“Tommy.” 

“Come on, that wasn’t bad.” 

“Alright. Fine.” Jon does love references to him generating applause. 

“This is really good, by the way.” 

“There, you won me back.” 

Conversation flows easily, once the awkwardness dissipates: Tommy runs Jon through the late night TV he watched last week, and Jon complains about his parents. They discuss how their wedding toasts are progressing and Jon goes on a long riff about how Tommy is plotting to steal his best lines. 

Jon isn’t drinking much but Tommy’s on his third beer by the time they move to the living room, his smiles and his hand gestures looser. 

“God,” Tommy says. “This is nice. I should just give up and start spending all my free time with you and Favs and Emily. Stop attempting to meet people.” 

“Well, yeah. Who says mixing work life and private life is unhealthy? We’ve all been doing it and it’s been working great.” 

“Beats having your work be your entire life.” Tommy sounds mostly grateful, a bit wistful, the way they all do when they recall their previous lives in the the White House. “Still though. Cute girl at the bakery asked for my number last week and I just - took me a few seconds too long. I’m so out of it.” 

Jon clicks his tongue. “Well, did you like her? I _will_ talk you through your heterosexual angst, I’m in a generous mood right now. But only if the anguish is really real.” 

“It’s - not that. Not hetero, not anguished. I’m trying to get over someone, I guess.”

“You’re allowed to feel indifferent towards strangers, even if they’re hot,” Jon says. He hadn’t known Tommy was carrying a torch, but he isn’t surprised. It’s a Tommy kind of thing to do. It would explain a lot. “San Francisco?” 

Tommy looks at him strangely, the kind of look he’d give when Jon asked about foreign affairs and he was deciding which parts of the truth were unclassified enough to reveal. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “San Francisco. That’s when I figured it out.” 

Jon heard a little of what Tommy got up to before he moved to LA. He’s the one who talked Tommy into downloading Grindr, told him it was a great time and place to be bisexual and Tommy’d better send him a fruit basket in gratitude for the life coaching once he got the fuck over himself. Two weeks later Tommy sent him an enormous edible bouquet with the note “You were right.” in dainty curling script, neon yellow hearts carved out of pineapple like something that had crossed over accidentally from a cartoon reality where everything was bright and chunky and emotions could lift you up instead of just wearing you down, and Jon sent him a picture of himself sucking on the end of a chocolate covered strawberry. He pictured Tommy in a strange apartment with a guy on his knees in front of him and then ate his way through half of it in a fit of passionate rage and threw the rest away, and texted Tommy that he felt sick from consuming a metric ton of fruit. 

The next time he called he managed to tease Tommy about it the way he was expecting. 2014, Jon thinks, marvelling at it. It feels like another age.

Jon vacillates between feeling scorn towards the San Franciscans he pictures in his mind, all of them either attractive tech entrepreneurs or social media influencers, who got Tommy in bed and let him leave, and commiseration because Tommy, after all, was never going to stay, not with the pull Crooked Media was exerting on him.

Tommy sees Jon staring at him, and shrugs apologetically. 

“Tommy. What the fuck. This is why you’ve been so miserable!” 

“Sure. Trump’s America, international crises, degradation of our democracy and poor Tommy Vietor’s hung up on a lost cause and can’t get laid. Look, Lovett, it’s - whatever. I’m thirty-seven. Sex is nice. For a while I had a fiance who used to tie me up and suck my dick when she saw me getting really stressed, and now I meditate and pester my colleagues and - shit sucks. I’m fine. Those things can both be true. They usually are.” Tommy’s laughing, but he’s also digging a hand into his thigh, not meeting Jon’s eyes. 

Jon bites the inside of his lip and nods slowly. 

"If only there was an app for that,” he says, eyes skipping away from the hollow of Tommy’s throat. “Like, you post a picture of you wearing a shirt and holding a dog and say I'm a handsome man, tie me up and ravish me, and then literally dozens of people volunteer and somebody meets you in a bar and comes back to your house and has sex with you. Seems like there's a gap in the market there."

“I know. It’s - it’s a trust thing. But you’re right. I should get out more.” Tommy is staring very hard at the wall, and Jon is excruciatingly aware of the foot of space between them on the couch. 

“The fight to put the truth back in politics starts at home. Accept that you're hot, Tommy.”

“By LA standards I'm hardly--”

“Shut the fuck up! I'm done with you right now.” Jon stands abruptly and marches around the coffee table. He doesn’t want to touch Tommy any less now that he’s on the other side of the room, but the prickling on his skin has eased a bit. Up close, Tommy smells of cologne and Jon _heard_ it when he swallowed. Tommy is always _there_ , solid and unassuming, and a few feet’s distance doesn’t do much to dull that but it might make it easier to tell him these obvious truths. 

“Sorry,” Tommy murmurs.

“Save it,” Jon says with a wave of his hand. Tommy’s looking over at him, hands clasped over his thighs, face serious except for the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You're right,” Tommy says. “Me being lonely is totally unexceptional.”

Jon gives this statement the silent scorn it deserves, even though Tommy has at last admitted that Jon is right and it’s the first thing Tommy has said since their conversation veered into this new and highly stressful territory that makes any sense. At least Jon has enough dignity to only talk about being lonely in jokes that everyone sees through, not with this gentle gravity on Jon's fucking sofa with two buttons undone. Tommy Vietor with his back straight like he has a ruler for a spine and his eyes fixed on Jon like there’s something Tommy thinks he has to make up for. 

Jon fidgets with his hands in his pockets, feels all that attentiveness focused on him. “Stop demurring,” he says, even though this is a terrible idea. “Say that you're hot.”

“I'm hot,” Tommy duly recites, and an embarrassed laugh sputters out of him. Tommy wipes a hand over his forehead. His face has grown pink. Jon wants to cross the distance between them and climb into his lap, put his hands on Tommy's shoulders and push him down onto his back hard enough that he bounces against the cushion and lets out the breath that Tommy looks like he’s always holding. 

“I'm six foot of toned and tolerably dressed eye-candy with a generous and formidable intellect, and every other person who meets me wants to fuck. Say it,” Jon says. He doesn’t seem to have much control over what’s coming over his mouth. 

“I know you love yourself, Lovett, but you're gonna have to deduct half a foot and the part about being toned for that to be true.” 

“Ha, ha. Say it Tommy.” Jon taps his foot. Fuck it, he thinks: sometimes you have to see a bad idea through to its inevitable bad ending.

“I,” tommy says; it comes out gritty and he pauses to take a breath. Jon glances at his watch conspicuously and Tommy gives him a _you fucker_ look. 

“I am approximately six foot of well-dressed--"

" _Not_ what I said," Jon cuts in.

"Six foot," Tommy says loudly. "Toned. Fuck, what was it--"

He’s really trying, Jon thinks, biting the inside of his lip. He waits; they don’t need to pretend Tommy doesn’t remember what Jon said. 

"Six foot of well-dressed eye candy with a formidable intellect, and every other person I meet wants to fuck me," Tommy says, both eyebrows raised. His cheeks and neck are flushed. "Allegedly. There you go, Lovett, are you proud of me?"

"Always," Jon says. “None of this should come as a surprise, though, I mean, you’re. Like I said. Come on, Tommy.” Tommy’s eyes widen briefly, and Jon feels suddenly exposed, his face hot. He wonders if this horrible churning is relief or dread. 

Tommy lifts his gaze up to Jon’s face, and then he just keeps looking, something unshuttered in his expression. 

Tommy laughs weakly and ducks his head. “Hey, Lovett,” he says. “What did the couch ever do to you? Why are we having this conversation from different sides of the room?”

“This conversation about your nonexistent sex life, you mean?” Jon says. 

“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” Tommy says, more bitter than Jon had anticipated. “Jesus, you try to--”

“No, you’re right. It’s an excellent couch. It’s the best piece of furniture in the room.”

Jon sits back down and brings his legs up onto the couch, swivels to face Tommy. The sleeves of Tommy’s red check button-down are rolled up to the elbows, the sight of him painfully familiar. His shoulders are still too tense. Jon clambers into his lap, warm and solid, loops his arms around Tommy’s neck, and kisses him, pressing his lips softly to Tommy’s. Tommy opens up right away and makes a sound like he’s starving. He slides his hands under Jon’s t-shirt to wrap around his waist.

Tommy chases his mouth when Jon draws back. “Every other person wants you,” Jon says, “but especially me. Me the most.” 

“Since when?” Tommy tugs upwards at the hem of Jon’s shirt and Jon resists for a second then accedes and lets Tommy pull it over his head, shivers at the feel of Tommy’s fingers on his bare skin. 

“Long enough. Oh my god, I seduced you. I had no idea it would be this easy.” 

“Well, it is.” Tommy brushes fingers under the waistband of Jon’s jeans, and he leans in to put his face against Jon’s neck, inhales, presses lips to his collarbone. “You - whatever you want, Lovett,” he mutters. 

“You can’t just say that,” Jon says, tilting his head back as Tommy kisses his way assiduously down his chest. Jon lets his mouth fall open and tries hard just to feel and not to think. Tommy, busy lavishing kisses on him, clearly doesn’t seem to mind that Jon doesn’t have washboard abs. 

“Too late. Can’t take it back.” Tommy lifts his head, moves away from Jon’s nipple, and Jon makes a noise of displeasure. 

“Tommy.” Jon shoves himself closer and grinds himself into Tommy’s lap. “I’m not letting you take it back. You messed up, you made an open-ended commitment.”

“Okay,” Tommy says. His hands squeeze tighter on Jon’s waist. Most of the weariness, the tightness around his eyes, is gone, replaced by hunger, for _Jon_ , and a slackness in his jaw from arousal and maybe disbelief. Jon brings his hands round to cup Tommy’s cheeks. Tommy closes his eyes and Jon runs his fingers gently over his forehead, smoothing out the faint lines, over the soft cool skin of his eyelids. He touches Tommy’s burning cheeks, his lips. Teeth scrape gently over the pad of Jon’s thumb and the corner of Tommy’s mouth turns up slightly. 

“Bed?” Jon says. He feels dazed with arousal. 

Tommy stands and Jon’s head is abruptly seven feet up in the air, Tommy’s hands digging into his ass. He clings onto him and groans into Tommy’s shoulder. 

“Can you make it up the stairs?” 

“Oh, shit,” Tommy says, staggering through the doorway.

“If you drop me on the stairs we have to have sex on the stairs,” Jon says breathlessly. “Wherever I land, that’s the rule.” He licks up Tommy’s neck and tastes sweat. “This is good. Caveman action. I like it.” 

Halfway up the stairs, Tommy says, “Jesus fuck, Lovett,” and turns to slam him against the wall. The momentum jars through Jon. He rolls his shoulders, feeling the wallpaper bumpy and cool against his bare back, and fists a hand in the short hairs at the back of Tommy’s neck. Tommy’s breathing hard. He kisses Jon, parting his lips insistently, pushing his tongue into Jon’s mouth. Beyond where Tommy’s face is bumping against his, Jon can see down over the banister to the first floor below and he feels a swoop of vertigo, though he knows that Tommy won’t drop him and even if he did he couldn’t fall far. 

“Bed,” Jon says, and tugs at the hair caught in his fist for emphasis. 

He’s wild with it, the hair stuck with sweat to Tommy’s forehead, the puffs of breath against Jon’s neck every time Tommy takes another stair, muscles working under Jon’s hands, the sheer stupidity of Tommy hauling him all this way just because. He feels like Tommy would walk into a wall if Jon told him to. It’s terrifying. 

Tommy drops him on the bed so hard Jon bounces and hears the springs creak under him, then Tommy collapses beside him and lies still, chest rising and falling with his breaths. 

Jon straddles Tommy and works his way down the buttons of his shirt. Tommy lies there, head tilted up to look at Jon, and does little to help. Fine. Jon figures he’s earned a breather. “Arms,” Jon says, and Tommy lifts them over his head promptly, arches his back to help Jon get the shirt off him. 

“Poor Tommy. Working night and day to grow our media conglomerate and then I climb you like you’re a tree and I’m a. A sex-mad sloth.” 

Tommy gives him a look, like he’s mildly offended to have Jon cooing sympathetically at him, and reaches for Jon’s belt. Jon’s enjoying having Tommy sprawled cooperatively beneath him, feels reckless and on the edge of something too big to feel the shape of, so he takes Tommy’s wrists in his hands and pushes back until they’re pinned on the pillow behind his head. Tommy raises his eyebrows, twists out of Jon’s grip and lunges upwards.

Jon grabs again, and they wrestle against the sheets. Tommy’s strong and not afraid to fight dirty, digging his fingernails into Jon’s hands and bucking up to try and unseat Jon. Jon laughs sharply, drags his ass forward onto Tommy’s chest and shoves him back down, pinning his trembling arms. He stares down at Tommy’s ruddy cheeks and gritted teeth and the vein pulsing in his forehead, until Tommy huffs out a laugh and goes lax. 

“Alright! Uncle. You got me.” 

“I work out,” Jon says gleefully. 

“I know,” Tommy says, breathing hard, eyes passing over Jon’s arms and back to his face. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

Jon presses his wrists down. “Stay there.” 

“Yessir,” Tommy says. Jon goes burning hot for a second and leans in to kiss his open mouth, chasing the taste of the words. Tommy opens up for him. God, Jon wants everything he can get out of Tommy. 

He backs up and unbuckles Tommy’s belt, tugging it through the loops, and pulls off his pants and boxers. Jon smiles briefly at him: sweet, trusting Tommy, still lying back with his wrists crossed like Jon told him to and trembling with suppressed urgency. Jon cradles Tommy’s cock in his hand, feels the heat of it, and kisses the tip. 

“Hey,” Tommy says. “Take those off?” He nudges Jon’s leg with his foot. Jon rolls off of him and wriggles out of his pants, and settles between Tommy’s legs. 

“You can touch my hair,” Jon says, “don’t pull. Some other time.” 

He doesn’t fail to notice how quickly Tommy reaches out for him, brushes a hand through Jon’s hair and brings it to rest on the back of his neck. It feels nice and grounding, Tommy’s fingers scratching loosely over the skin. Jon fists his own dick and squeezes at the base .

Tommy is a deeply polite blowjob recipient, all cut-off groans and quivering thighs, working so hard not to push up into Jon’s mouth. Jon does his best to provoke him by sliding slowly off with a wet noise and hovering over his dick, breathing on it. He looks up to see Tommy with his head turned to the side, panting against the bare flesh of his shoulder. 

“You better look at me,” Jon says, waits until Tommy lifts his head and their eyes meet, a shared shock of need. Jon sinks down and quits teasing, nothing beyond the sensation of his jaw stretched wide and Tommy’s cock in his throat, hot skin under his hands and spit gathering in his mouth, cool on his lips.

“Lovett,” Tommy says, “Jon, god,” his hand moving with Jon’s head. 

Jon pulls off and slides up to swallow Tommy’s sound of agony in a kiss, messy, teeth scraping, needing more body contact, for Tommy to be closer. He rolls them over so Tommy’s on top of him and surrounding him and rubs up against Tommy’s thigh, chasing his release and feeling feral with it. Tommy gets a hand on Jon and he bucks up into the warm tight pressure of his grip. He comes into Tommy’s hand with a sob, riding out the waves of it. 

Jon lies back, shuddering with aftershocks. Tommy’s dick slides against his belly until he comes on Jon and collapses on top of him, his face tucked in Jon’s shoulder. Jon rubs his foot against Tommy’s ankle.

“We are gross,” Tommy says into his ear. “Shower?”

“Soon. Very soon.” Jon shifts experimentally under the sticky deadweight of Tommy. He’s struck by the novelty of it. Sex, during the era of Ronan, meant a stranger in your bed and your boyfriend on another coast most of the time, except for on birthdays and holidays. It isn’t Jon or Tommy’s birthday, and it isn’t a major festivity, but there’s a guy in Jon’s bed and he isn’t a stranger. He’s Tommy. “Or now, before you crush my bones.” 

\---

Tommy takes his hand as they walk through to the shower. 

“This is by far the most successful date of my entire life,” Jon tells him, “and I didn’t know it was one.”

A thought occurs to him, standing under the spray and kissing Tommy luxuriantly, running both hands over his chest to make up for all the lost time spent in proximity to Tommy with no access to his naked body. He forces himself to say it. “Was it me? The person you couldn’t get over.”

“I thought about you so much.” Jon’s seen Tommy kiss other people - girlfriends, fiancees - the way he’s kissing Jon now. Slow, and achingly romantic. “I was going out of my fucking mind, Jon, texting these guys and thinking what would Lovett think, would he make fun of me, what would he say in reply if I sent this to him, what would it be like, if I did this with him.”

“You can do it with me,” Jon says. “Just as soon as you get it up. Also we can do the bondage thing once you tell me how it works. I think I’m into it.” 

“Oh, you think?” Tommy says, lathering shower gel in his hands. He’s pink all over from the shower so it’s hard to tell if he’s blushing. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Jon says diffidently. “If you stay over we can steal breakfast pastries from Emily and Jon before we go to the office. It’s my regular 9am hustle.” 

“Stealing food from your friends isn’t a hustle, Lovett, that’s just being a shitty friend.” 

“Who cooked you dinner tonight?” Jon demands. “Who was that? Who--” Tommy reaches out and shoves a hot damp hand over Jon’s mouth, pushes him against the wall. Jon splutters, and digs his hands into Tommy’s back when Tommy doesn’t take his hand away and stays pressed damply against him.

“Sure,” Tommy says. “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved! I'm yelling into the void about this podcast @ kiwisatsuma on tumblr.


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